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“You can sing.”

He takes my offered hand and looks down at our joined hands. Then he draws me closer and sings the first line of the tune we danced to downstairs.

The sound is low enough that I feel it where my cheek rests against his chest. We move slowly, with no drummer to hurry us and nobody else to turn around. His hand covers the back of my waist. I stop trying to follow any particular steps and go where he takes me.

I can still feel the note against my cheek after he stops. I stay there until his mouth brushes the top of my head.

I am smiling so much it has become difficult to speak. He can probably feel that through the bond. I open the contact a little and let him, and his own pleasure reaches me, full of something that makes me lift my head.

“I love you,” he says.

I hear the words in the room. His voice, the one I liked before I knew he could be kind, before I knew what it sounded like when he laughed.

I want to remember his face exactly as it is now.

“I love you, too.”

He lets out a breath and pulls me close. I wrap my arms around him, pressing my face to his chest until I can manage the rest.

“I thought about telling you downstairs. Then I thought about Ziku.”

Daurek laughs. I feel it under my cheek, and I hold on to him harder because it is mine to cause.

“He would have told everyone,” he says.

“Before you had a chance to answer.”

“I had an answer.”

“I know. I liked hearing it myself.”

He lifts my chin. I am still smiling when he kisses me, which makes it awkward for a moment. Then his mouth opens against mine and the smile becomes something else.

I want his hands on me. I reach for him, enjoying how quickly he comes closer.

His hand closes around the back of my neck, warm bark beneath my hair.

I pull him down.

His mouth is warm living grain, smooth in some places and rough enough in others to catch my lower lip. He makes a sound that travels through the floor.

A vine curls loosely around my forearm, above the healed scrape, and waits.

“Yes,” I say.

It tightens just enough to give me leverage as Daurek lifts me. My legs close around him. His body is solid and warm, bark scraping through my dress, the scent of rain and cut cedar thickening with every breath.

He presses me against the living wall. It softens behind my back. Moss grows beneath my shoulders rather than bark biting into them.

“The wall is more considerate than you look,” I whisper.

The leaves along his jaw lift. “You are still joking.”

“Not anymore.”

I bite the edge of his lower lip.

Branches brush the ceiling. Flowers open with a rush of perfume. His fingers find the ties of my dress and begin to undo them.